


Forgiveness

by glacis



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of what Duncan may have done under the influence of the dark quickening, and how his friends come to grips with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness

Forgiveness. Takes place directly after 'Deliverance'.

 

"I don't know if I can." The words were soft, filled with confusion and pain. Joe Dawson looked at the deceptively young face of Duncan MacLeod's protégé, and sighed. He threw a beseeching glance over at the third man in the sitting room. Methos didn't seem to notice, his eyes fixed on the middle distance, his spare, mobile features reflecting an unaccustomed solemnity. He looked to be a million miles away. Joe sighed again, deeper this time, and turned back to the young Immortal.

"Richie. It wasn't Mac. You know that, in your heart. It was the dark quickening. But he's healed from that, right, Methos?" He tried to draw the ancient Immortal into the conversation once again, to no avail.

Richie stared into Joe's sad eyes, wanting to believe him, wanting to go back to where he had been, a place where trust in the Highlander came as naturally as breathing. But he had been so frightened. "He nearly took my head!" he burst out, unable, still, to comprehend how someone he loved so much could change so completely.

Joe started to explain, again, patiently, that the dark quickening had been leading MacLeod's actions, and it had been overcome with Methos' help. Before he could get very far into his plea, Methos' voice broke over his own. Only the tone was not one he ever remembered hearing from the ancient one.

"Almost. Listen to yourself, Richard." He sounded harsh, cold, the weight of millennia ringing through his words. "He did *not* take it. Even with the force of evil riding him, drowning him. He almost took your head. But he didn't." He broke off from his mid-distance stare to pin Richie with a fierce, clear green gaze. "He almost killed Joe. But he didn't. He almost took my head on Holy Ground." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "But he didn't."

"He betrayed me!" Richie tried to sound tough, unforgiving. Instead, he merely sounded wounded, and very young. "You don't know what it felt like! He was my *friend*!"

Before either man realized what was happening, Methos had crossed the floor and swept Richie against the wall, holding him to the wall with one forearm against his throat. Further words died before they could be uttered. "He was *my* friend, too, Richie. And he still is. Even though he betrayed *me*."

Joe moved to intervene, gently calling his friend's names. "Methos. Adam. C'mon, man, ease off, please." Methos turned to glare at Joe, not moving a muscle, then abruptly released the much younger Immortal. He whirled and strode to the window, staring sightlessly out at the busy street two stories below. Joe put a hand to Richie's shoulder to steady him, but Richie shrugged him off and angrily confronted Methos' back.

"How?" he almost screamed, words raspy from the bruising force of Methos' arm. "How the hell did he betray you?! So he challenged you on Holy Ground, that's *nothing* compared to what he-"

"He raped me."

"-did to me! I trusted... What?" Richie's voice broke unexpectedly at the sibilant whisper from the window. He looked at Joe, who was standing staring at Methos in shocked disbelief.

"He almost beheaded you. He almost killed Joe. He held back." Methos closed his eyes, tightly, then shook his head as if to clear it. "He didn't hold back with me."

 

"We're on Holy Ground!" Anything, anything to reach him. To stop the razor's edge from adding a five thousand year old power to unsheathed evil. Next he knew, Duncan was throwing him bodily to the ground. He slid across the polished floor to fetch up untidily at the steps leading to the altar, one leg out flung, one bent at the knee, arms akimbo, the back of his head aching from its brief contact with the bottom step, his ears ringing slightly from the concussion.

"So, I won't take your head. But you just don't seem to learn." He moved swiftly to stand over Methos' sprawled body, one foot resting lightly against his throat, pinning him to the floor. "You won't leave me alone. If I can't get your Quickening, I'll take something else."

The ancient Immortal looked up at his friend, his hope, unrecognizable with the malicious gleam of pleasure lighting his dark eyes. With a lightning movement, Duncan dropped to straddle his midriff, knocking the air out of him and forcing him to lie flat on the floor. Even with the dizziness closing in on him from lack of air, he tried to fight him, tried to buck him off. His efforts only seemed to amuse the man sitting on him. He thrust as hard as he could, getting his legs under him, trying to roll him off while reaching for his hair with both hands, intending to use the flowing locks as a handle to pull the burly Scot off of him. MacLeod only laughed, grabbing both of his slender wrists in one hand and pulling them over his head. Then he shifted his hips deliberately, grinding the hard muscles of his ass into Methos' pelvis, hurting him, bruising his trapped cock, flattening his scrotum against his pelvic bone. Methos couldn't contain the whimper that escaped at the movement.

"Och, you *like* that, eh?" The oily tone was a travesty of the warm Scots burr Methos was so used to hearing. He looked up at the gloating face hovering above his, his vision hazy with unshed tears. It had been many, many centuries since he had found himself in this position. It brought back bad memories. Before he could do more than give a minimal, negative shake to his head in response to MacLeod's mocking question, the Highlander thrust his other hand behind Methos' head and clutched the thick hair at the back of his head. Bending down to meet his lips, he forced his mouth over Methos', pulling his head back to arch his neck, pressing the other man's jaw open in order to thrust his tongue inside.

Methos nearly gagged at the pressure, then deliberately relaxed his jaw, concentrating on getting through this with as little pain as possible. Impossibly, the kiss grew deeper, exploring every soft crevice and hard ridge, playing with his palate, pressing against his tongue. An involuntary moan worked its way from his throat. Even now, even brutal, even with an unwilling partner, the man knew how to seduce with his mouth.

As abruptly as the kiss began, it ended, and MacLeod sat upright, staring down at Methos lying beneath him. His green gold eyes were wide and awash with tears. A few had leaked from the corners, running along his temples to disappear into his soft brown hair. His mouth was open, reddened, bruised from the force of the kiss. The glitter in the Highlander's eyes changed, grew brighter as his breathing grew more shallow.

"You don't want this, Duncan," Methos tried one last time to reach through the wash of evil and plead with whatever remnants of his friend were still inside. "Please. Please don't do this to me."

The even, hard grin he got in return killed his hope. Lust was paramount in MacLeod now, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do to stop it. He bucked and twisted, the memories of five millennia previous, and his first death, sweeping over him and causing his rational mind to flee. It could not happen again. He couldn't let it happen again.

He felt the MacLeod's weight rise for a moment and it gave him a burst of adrenaline to think that he might escape. The burst faded quickly when the hand holding his wrenched his arms to the side and he found himself tied to the base of a nearby pew with the long scarf MacLeod had been wearing around his neck. Hard hands ripped at his waistband, tugged at his boots. He tried to kick out with his legs, and got cuffed soundly along the side of his head for his efforts.

The force of the blow made him dizzy again, and when he had shaken it off he found himself naked from the waist down. A moment of blindness panicked him, then the cold draft of air across his chest alerted him to the fact that MacLeod had pulled his sweater off over his head. The material from it and his coat bunched along his wrists, adding to the constriction of the scarf. He was well and truly caught.

MacLeod straddled him again, but didn't rest his weight on him as he had before. Keeping his eyes on Methos' face the entire time, he quickly stripped off his own clothing, carefully staying as close to the ancient's body as possible so that Methos couldn't kick at him. When he was fully nude he dropped down again, and Methos gasped at the heat of his skin. He felt as though he was enveloped by the bigger man, surrounded by the scent and heat and sensation of slick skin and crisp hair rubbing along his entire length. Their legs were intertwined, their chests crushed together, MacLeod's arms running along his sides, over his shoulders, to cup his head and bring it back into another punishing kiss.

Methos thought he would very likely go mad. His first death had been after an attack such as this, and the time shifting was making his mind scream. That it should be Duncan, the first Immortal he had become close with in two centuries, the man he had hoped would one day be his lover, made the entire experience seem so surreal. But the hands now prying his legs apart were anything but ephemeral. Reality, not memory, and all the more horrific for it. He felt his knees pushed up until they rested, bent, in the hollows of MacLeod's shoulders, then a hand was prodding at him, stretching his ass apart, probing his anus. Sweat ran down the crease between his thighs, some his, some MacLeod's, providing some moisture but not nearly enough. When MacLeod pushed the head of his cock against the small opening he could feel it tear the soft tissue, and he began breathing as deeply as he could, consciously relaxing his muscles to make entry as easy as possible.

The Highlander didn't pause, just pushed in until their hips touched, and he could feel the coarse pubic hair and heavy sac against the tender skin of his ass cheeks. With no warning, MacLeod pulled almost completely out and slammed back into him. Methos couldn't contain the scream that time. Unbelievably, MacLeod laughed. Then he bent forward and began to rock steadily into Methos' body, ramming his cock as far up the vulnerable ass under him as he could reach, over and over. In a deliberate move to cause Methos as much mental distress as he could, and force the older Immortal's body to betray him, he angled his entry so that the head of his driving cock pushed into Methos' prostate with every stroke, in and out, forcing a reaction from his victim.

Against his will, Methos felt his cock stir into aching hardness, crushed between their bodies as Duncan pumped into him. The combination of pressure on his erection and the manipulation of his gland caused Methos to writhe under MacLeod, whimpering moans panting out from between clenched teeth. His entire body felt sensitized, brutally and completely taken, his nipples erect and sensitive to the crisp chest hair grazing them, his ass stretched and filled, his mouth and throat ravished by MacLeod with each downstroke. He felt completely helpless, utterly vulnerable, totally violated. The pressure was too much and he came hard, his body shaking from the force of his orgasm. MacLeod grunted with pleasure as Methos' internal muscles milked him, but he slowed his pace, determined not to end his fun so soon.

He paced himself slowly, deliberately, until he felt Methos' erection return from the unremitting stimulus of his fucking. The ancient was moaning continuously now, a mixture of pain and unwilling pleasure. Finally, after what felt to Methos like decades, his erstwhile friend finally climaxed. He felt the universe explode as he came as well, the second orgasm wringing him emotionally dry as well as physically exhausting him.

MacLeod pulled out slowly, and Methos whimpered with each centimeter as it was removed. He forced his eyes open, to see the Highlander staring at him, no expression in his face, an odd combination of satiated lust and pure horror in his eyes. He backed away, grabbing his clothing and pulling it on before taking his sword up to sever the knot holding Methos to the pew. Their eyes locked, and Methos saw the horror gradually fade, replaced by satisfaction. He very nearly cried. Yes, his friend Duncan was still in there, but he was buried deeply, and he had to be rescued soon.

The thought spurred him into action, and he forced his aching body to move, dressing quickly, trying to ignore the blood and semen on his thighs and the ache throughout his body. He took a deep breath to wash away the last of the unsteadiness and ran as quickly as he could out of the church, in time to see MacLeod head directly toward him in a bright red sports car. He dove out of the way before the Highlander could actually run over him, then made his way painfully to his car to follow.

 

"True, he didn't take me head. But he took everything else. My body, my mind, my heart." Methos swung around to face his silent audience. Richie was staring at him in complete disbelief. Joe, who knew how he had originally died and could more fully comprehend the depth of the betrayal, looked as if he might actually cry. "And I stayed. Followed him. Got him back. Do you really think I could have forgiven him if I didn't honestly believe he wasn't to blame for what he did while under the influence of the dark quickening?" He stared directly at Richie.

The younger Immortal shook his head, then croaked, "You're a better guy than I am."

Methos shook his head with disgust. "No. Just older. And if you throw away everything you have with Duncan because of this, you're a bloody fool."

An unmistakable buzz made Richie and Methos turn to face the door. Duncan stood there, pausing hesitantly in the doorway, unsure of his welcome, prepared to leave if that was Richie's choice. The redhead stared at him for a long moment, then moved uncertainly toward him.

"Mac." Greeting, reproof, welcome.

"Richie." A question in the word.

"Let's take a walk." A tentative invitation.

After they left, Joe came slowly to stand beside Methos, still leaning up against the wall, drained from reliving his ordeal. Slowly, unsure of the reception he might meet, he curved his arm around Methos' shoulders and urged him into his embrace. With no reluctance at all the ancient Immortal snuggled into Joe's arms, and the Watcher gently stroked his hair.

"I'm so sorry, Adam. Methos." The smoky voice eased an ache he didn't realize was still there, and he nuzzled the soft beard and warm neck so close to his face. His mouth turned up, blindly seeking the comfort of the other man's lips, and he turned to wind his arms around Joe's waist. Dawson was momentarily stunned by the action, then joined the kiss wholeheartedly. When Methos finally broke for air, they looked intently at one another. "Come with me," Joe urged tenderly. "Let me replace some of the painful memories with good ones. I'm not Duncan-"

A long finger across his mouth stopped his words. "Make love to me, Joe." Wide eyes like wet spring leaves meshed with his. "Please."

Neither quite knew how they got from the den to the bedroom. It was a delicate dance, Joe leading, Methos following with a sort of dazed acquiescence. Clothes were shed between feathery kisses, caresses, touches lighting tiny fires wherever their skin met. Methos lowered Joe to the bed and the mortal surprised him by his arm strength as he pulled him down to meet him. Joe struggled for a moment with the straps on his prostheses, and Methos firmly pushed him prone and took them off, gently rubbing the feeling back into the weary thighs. Joe pulled him up so that their mouths could meet again, then hands flew, tracing patterns of fire and healing over Methos, arousing them both. Methos hovered over Joe, licking and tasting as much as he could, tonguing his nipples, outlining his ribs and hips with his hands, before closing his mouth around Joe's erection. The Watcher started, then moaned.

"This is supposed to be for you," he managed to grind out through a tensed throat.

Methos barely paused. "It is," he returned roughly, then lowered his head back to his friend's straining cock. It had been some time for Joe, and it didn't take long before the stimulation from teeth and tongue and hands brought him to the edge. He tried to warn Methos that he was coming but all he could manage were inarticulate groans. The Immortal felt the balls under his fingers draw up, the pulsing in the thick vein thunder, and sealed his lips around Joe's cock when he came, sucking hard, not letting any of the hot cream escape. When Joe fell back, exhausted, Methos untangled the other man's hands from his short hair and slid up the sweat soaked body to share the taste with the source, opening his mouth in a deep kiss that Joe enthusiastically accepted. Joe's hand trailed down Methos' torso and the ancient jumped as the strong musician's fingers closed rhythmically around his aching cock.

"Your turn, my friend," Joe rasped, then levered himself over onto his side, glancing almost coyly over his shoulder as he did. Methos inhaled sharply at the back and ass presented so invitingly to him, and ran his hands appreciatively over the soft skin, testing the firm muscle beneath.

"Are you sure about this, Joe?" One brow rose on the intent face staring at him, and dimples appeared through the beard.

"Hell, yes, Methos. What are you waiting for?" The grin accompanying the invitation convinced him, and he smiled himself, reaching down to gently part Joe's ass and prepare the way for his entry. Suddenly, he stopped. Joe raised his head from the pillow and looked quizzically at him.

"Lube," Methos explained shortly, looking around a little wildly. Joe nodded toward the bedside table, and Methos rummaged around in the drawer until he found the tube he needed. Licking his lips, he squeezed a small amount onto his fingertips and began to work them deeply into Joe's ass. It had been a long time, and the muscles were unused to such activity, but Methos took his time, enjoying the sounds of appreciation rumbling from his friend. The touching, the caring, went a great way toward repairing the damage MacLeod's rough handling had done.

The sense of control and slow, deliberate action helped him tamp down the memories, both of the recent rape and the ancient one. By the time he was ensconced in his lover's body, working him deeply and sharing the pleasure, he had his balance back, and was truly remembering the exquisite sensation of making love. And when Joe came beneath him, thrusting into his hand and back on his cock, taking him over the edge into orgasm, their cries mingling, he felt more at peace than he had since the whole horrible mess had begun.

Pulling Joe into his arms, Methos breathed deeply and smoothed the other man's hair back from his forehead, resting his head on the pillow next to him and using his other arm to hold him close. They lay together for a long time, Methos hovering on the edge of sleep, until Joe turned to him.

"Can you do what you asked Richie to do? Can you forgive him?" The somber, sad eyes locked on his gave Methos pause, and he thought it over seriously.

"Yes," he finally replied. "I have to." Joe looked askance at him, and Methos found himself smiling. "That's what love does, Joe. Heals, and comforts, and forgives." Joe smiled back at him, and nodded.

"Do you think Richie can?"

"You have. I have." Methos gathered Joe up tightly once more, and kissed him gently. "He will, eventually. Because he'll have to. He loves him too." He ignored the buzz he had felt at the edge of his mind when he had climaxed ... he knew who it was, but he didn't feel up to dealing with MacLeod just yet.

Lost in their own thoughts, they didn't see the shadow as Duncan eased away from the door and settled into the soft sofa in the den. Richie was gone, off sorting through everything that had happened. He didn't know when he'd be back. Joe was still his friend, and Methos ... Methos had forgiven him. He sighed and stared at the bedroom door, waiting patiently for them to rise and join him. He would prove his contrition to Methos for what he had done to him, when Methos was ready. Until then, he would stay back and let Joe comfort him. And when the time was right, he would show Methos that he also knew what love was, and thank him properly for his forgiveness.

end


End file.
